


As Good a Place to Start as Any

by Xyriath



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Young Avengers
Genre: AU (slightly), Character Study, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when you stick a young mutant in juvie for blowing up his school?</p><p>Nothing pleasant, to absolutely no one's surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is all essentially 20,000 words of headcanon I just mused up and put into readable format. This is slightly AU, technically meant to take place in a modified version of the Marvel Cinematic Universe created for an RP site, though it doesn't show at all until the end of the third chapter.

They felt different this time.

Tommy had always thought that the expression "same, but different" was absolutely retarded.  He wouldn't let himself describe this that way—but maybe he could get away with "same, but with a ton of new shit piled on top."Yeah.  That sounded accurate.

Of course, he only gave a passing thought to wondering why his powers felt different.  He was far more preoccupied with the anger, the rage, the absolutely overwhelming _fury_ that left white spots in his vision and dragged ugly, burning tendrils of hatred up through his gut into his chest.  They spread to his arms and then his fingers and—

There was a sharp crack that spiderwebbed across the window, a high-pitched prelude to the shattering crash that sent thousands of pieces of glass shooting in thousands of directions.  Mrs. Berg let out a shriek and recoiled back through the doorway.  Mr. Dresden, called in to break up the fight between the two boys, didn't jump back, but certainly looked like he wanted to.

And Mitchell Blake, caught between the glass that used to be the window and a very angry Tommy, panicked.

"So you _are_ one of those freaks!" he snarled.  "I _knew_ there was something wrong with you, Shepherd!  No wonder you fucked up your paren—"

Tommy's fist smashed into Mitchell's jaw, sending the boy sprawling into the mess of glass shards.  Mitchell screamed as several of them ground into his arm, spots of blood smudging the ground as he skidded across it, but Tommy didn't care.  He had _dared_ —the disgusted looks from Frank, the always-wounded expression on his mother's face, had already half-convinced him that the divorce was his fault, but he didn't need to hear that from this piece of shit—and then there was a rumble, the signs of something much bigger than one measly shattered window.  Tommy didn't even realize that he was lifting his hands.  To do what, he didn't quite know—yes, there had been those times where he had broken something on accident, and that one time where he had turned the kitchen door into several hundred miniature-sized kitchen door pieces, but Tommy had always figured that it was just the momentum that came with the speed.  But he hadn't even touched the window; wasn't touching his surroundings, but there was still that _pressure_ building—

"Thomas Shepherd, stop it _right this instant!_ "

Tommy whirled to face Mr. Dresden, who, though pale, had managed to keep his composure.  "Stop _what!_ " Tommy snarled back, voice rising.  "I'm not even fucking _doing_ anything!  The fucker _deserved_ it, you heard what he said, and—"  His voice had risen to almost a shriek.  "And it's always _my goddamn fault_ , isn't it!  But I—"  He forgot his tirade instantly when he saw Mitchell running past him in his peripheral vision.  Tommy lunged, intent on punching his face in or kicking the shit out of him or _something_.  These thoughts lasted a few seconds, until something hit him from the side, knocking him into a desk.

There was a sharp pain above his right eyebrow, but he barely noticed, instead turning to shove Mr. Dresden off of him.  The man might have been a chemistry teacher, but he was built more similarly to gym teachers, and his classroom was closer to the detention room when fights needed to be broken up.  Of course, as a superhuman, even a scrawny one, Tommy had him beat and it only took a few moments of struggling until he was free again—and then there was a loud explosion above them.

Dust rained down on their heads.  The rest of the inhabitants of the classroom and Mrs. Berg fled as another explosion rocked the building.  Eyes wide, Tommy gawped out through the shattered remains of the window at the sight of the clock tower—or what _had_ been the clock tower—collapsing into the back parking lot.  He whirled back to Mr. Dresden, mouth already open to scream his denial of what had just happened,but all he saw in the split second before the fist connected with his jaw was an expression on the teacher's face that might have been apology.

* * *

When Tommy woke up, the grass was prickling his face and he was in handcuffs.  No, not handcuffs.  These were wider, more restrictive.  He struggled to sit up, but before he could get very far, a hand grabbed his shoulder and dragged him up.  Scrambling to get his feet underneath him before he collapsed face-first into the pavement, he gave the not-handcuffs a yank, expecting them to break when faced with his increased strength.  But nothing happened.

"Power dampeners," came the voice to his left.  Tommy whipped his head over and up—it felt like moving it through jell-o—to see a stern-looking policeman giving him a cold look.  Tommy's shoulders tensed and he tried to make a run for it, bolt away at the superspeed that had become such a constant presence, able to be used if he just _wanted_ it, but he only made it a few steps before he had two sets of arms grabbing his own and hauling him back.

"Let me _go!_ " he snarled, but the only effect this had was eliciting a bitter laugh from one of his escorts.  Yeah, he didn't actually expect that to work.  They didn't say anything at all, just continued pulling him towards what Tommy realized was a police car.

He looked around wildly, and it was only then that he began to take in his surroundings.  A crowd had formed, flanking them on both sides, filled with teachers and bystanders and the students that hadn't yet headed home.  Tommy could hear a buzzing that slowly resolved into snippets of actual, if low, conversation…

"Some kid in detention…"

"Heard he tried to kill someone."

"Think they'll cancel exams?"

"Blew it _up…_ "

"Fucking _muties._ "

Tommy whipped his head in the direction of the last comment, anger beginning to twist up his face, but his body froze at the entire sight of what was behind him.

Where the school had been, now only a few crumbling walls remained.  His green eyes widened as they took in the rubble—what was left of it.  Though he could see pieces of the clock tower on the other side of the mess, in all, the rest of the school had just… disappeared.  It didn't make sense.

He didn't realize that his legs had gone weak until he felt a yank on both of his arms.  He stumbled—an incredibly unfamiliar sensation—as the two policemen continued to escort him forcibly to the car.  He could feel the blood draining further from his already pale face, and figured that it was probably almost as light as his hair by this point.  His legs seemed to remember how to work again, and they carried him towards the flashing red and blue lights.  He could vaguely feel his shoulders begin to shake as he stole another glance back at the catastrophe.  It hadn't just exploded.  It had been _vaporized._

Tommy took a shaky breath as they pushed him into the back seat of the car.

_I did that._

He turned his head to look, in shock, through the barred window.

_I did it.  I blew it up._

That ugly feeling started churning in his gut again.

_I'm not sorry._

* * *

Tommy had sunk so far into defiance by the trial that he hardly remembered it.  He _did_ remember his parents coming to visit him (and refusing to pay bail): the furious look on Frank's face, asking how Tommy could have been so fucking _stupid_ , but then he shouldn't have been surprised, should he?  Tommy was only stopped from yelling himself hoarse at the man by his mother, whose wounded and distraught expression he hated, but induced a nauseous amount of guilt anyway.  Luckily for him, she only directed it at him for part of the visit; the rest of the time she was quarreling bitterly with Frank.

"This is what happens when you raise a boy like—"

"Christ, don't fucking start with me, Mary—"

Tommy knew that the sign of the cross she made was coming before her hand moved, and he gritted his teeth.  God, he hated it when she did that.

"It's _your_ fault he turned out like this, you selfish bastard!  You've been letting him get away with this behavior since the day he was _born_ , just to spite me!"

"Oh, ho, _ho._ "  Frank's laugh was incredulous and humorless.  "Don't start this bullshit.  You think I _tried_ to raise your son to be worthless?  That's all on you, you stupid cu—"

His mother let out a wordless shriek, outraged, at the same time Tommy screamed.  "Both of you shut the _fuck_ up!"

They both turned on him, mutual detestation of each other momentarily forgotten.  He knew how this was about to go; the backhand from one of them would come flying at his face in a moment, and he realized he wasn't going to be able to dodge it with the power dampeners in the room.  He realized he didn't care.

The door opened suddenly, causing the two adults to turn and Tommy to glare past them.  A well-dressed pair walked in, one man and one woman, followed by two police officers.  Tommy had dodged the proverbial bullet.  For now.

"Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd—" the man began.

"Ms. Donato," his mother interrupted in a quavering voice.  God, were her eyes starting to water?  Until now, Tommy hadn't realized how familiar that surge of guilt and hatred in equal parts was.  He tried to ignore it, told herself that she was just indulging in playing the victim _again_ , but it sat there, festering in his gut.

"Christ, Mary, do you really have to—"

"We are _here_ to provide legal counsel for you, Thomas," the woman cut in.  Tommy's eyebrows went up, almost impressed in spite of himself.  Though she looked tired and the amount of grey in her hair seemed disproportionate to the relative youth in her face—she couldn't have been older than her thirties—her voice was cutting enough to shut both of them up.  Tommy couldn't remember the last time his parents had been in a room together where they _weren't_ biting each other's heads off.  Or his own.

"My name is Christina Spenser.  This is my associate, Justin Pierce."  She held out her hand for Tommy to shake.  He gave her a look that said, quite clearly, "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

She met it with her own gaze that said, "No, young man, I am not."

He shook her hand.

She did not shake the hand of either of the adults in the room.  When he noticed this, Tommy didn't even have a problem shaking Justin's hand.  He may have reveled in a perverse sense of what would have been glee had the situation not been so shitty.

"As you may know, you are entitled to a lawyer if you or your parents are unable or unwilling—"  Tommy noticed how her eyes cut to Frank as she said this.  "—to provide one for you."

" _Hell_ no," Frank snarled.  "I'm not spending any more money on that fucking—"

" _Frank!_   Have some _decency—!_ "

"And he has made this _quite clear_."  Christina's voice rose above the two.  Again.  Tommy could have almost liked her out of spite.  She turned back to him.  "Now, the law also requires that your legal guardians be present unless you specifically waive that right—"

"Getemouttahere," Tommy said without hesitation.

The other five sets of eyes turned on the Shepherds, and Mary looked horrified.  "Absolutely not!  I have a right to be here when you are discussing _my son—!_ "

"Ma'am," one of the police officers spoke up.  We're going to have to ask you to leave."

"You're not _seriously_ going to make us go."  That was Frank.  Tommy just rolled his eyes.  He had no doubt that if they had told the man he had to stay, he would have bitched that he had more important things to be doing.

"Yes, we are."  Neither of these officers looked like they would tolerate any bullshit.  Tommy settled back to enjoy the show.

Christina's eyes had never left Tommy.  "Now, we're going to discuss—"

"I am _not_ leaving!"  The shrill voice of his mother's voice made Tommy wince, but Christina was having none of her shit.  Whipping her head around, she shot Tommy's mother one of those _looks._   "I am _speaking._   If we ever have the misfortune of meeting again, you will remember not to interrupt."

Well _shit._   Tommy knew he probably looked impressed right about now, despite himself.  Mary was unable to do anything but make a shocked, horrified face as the two police officers escorted his parents out.

Tommy watched them go, not even trying to hide his smug expression.

He idly noticed the two of them pull out chairs and sit down, but he waited a few seconds to drag his eyes away from the door and then from Christina to Justin.

"Are you all right, Thomas?"

The voice belonged not to Christina, but Justin, and Tommy just rolled his eyes.  "Tommy."

"Tommy, then."  Why did he have to be so agreeable?  "The question still stands."

Tommy eyed the severe-looking man—he was older than Christina, but not as grey—and tried to ascertain if the man was being serious.  Why the fuck should he care?

"Eh," he said with a shrug.  "Yeah, they go at it all the time.  Hell, they're probably on cloud nine right now.  I gave 'em something _new_ to fight about.  That's an argument they'll keep at for ages."  And now they didn't even have to pretend to want him to fight over him—this would work out so much better than the custody battles they had started just to spite each other.

Christina bent down and pulled out something.  Tommy didn't realize that she had unscrewed the water bottle cap and wet the handkerchief until she held it out to him.  Tommy stared at it stupidly, having no idea what in the world she was doing, until she tapped her eyebrow and he creased his own.  The dried blood stretched his skin awkwardly, and the part that was not-quite-clotted started to run sluggishly.  Oh.  Right.  He accepted it, swiping at the blood and glancing at the handkerchief, then returned to scrubbing it clean, ignoring the stinging sensation.

"Tommy, you need to understand that the situation isn't good," Christina began gravely.  Tommy let a sharp breath of humorless laughter escape his lungs.  No shit.

"We're going to do what we can."  That was Justin, voice gentler than Christina's.  Tommy guessed he figured why he had let her do the talking before this.  "But given that you vaporized an entire school—"

"Anyone dead?"  The question was curt, said with a masked expression, neither worried nor hopeful.  Justin shook his head.

"Several with injuries, a few in the hospital.  Considerate that you waited until after school to do it."  Right.  "That boy—Mitchell Blake, he had a broken jaw."  Tommy's lips curved upward slightly, though the rest of his face remained impassive.  "Hundreds of thousands in property damage…"

Tommy rolled his eyes and looked away, tossing the handkerchief on the table and leaning back in his chair, tilting it on two legs.  He wondered how long he was going to have to listen to them going on about getting him off on a lighter sentence.  He was fucked anyway, though he supposed it was nice of them to try.

He almost wished he could have let himself like them.

* * *

Two years in a high-security facility, minimum.  With the definite implied threat that should he cause more trouble, the courts wouldn't hesitate to dump more time onto that sentence.

He gathered from Christina and Justin's response that this was a miracle; that the judge had a track record of sympathy for mutants; that their plea of accidental vaporization had managed to counterbalance his less-than-sunny disposition.  Tommy couldn't really be bothered to give two fucks.  Justin had tried to pat him on the shoulder when they parted ways for good, but the tension in Tommy's muscles and the subsequent _look_ that Christina gave Justin quickly put a stop to that.  It did not, however, stop him from a parting, "Good luck, Tommy."  Christina wasn't so sentimental, but she did spare a nod.

His parents didn't show up at the trial.


	2. Chapter 2

As much trouble as Tommy had been in with the law, he had never _actually_ been incarcerated.  Usually he had either been delivered to his irate parents by an irate police officer or, in the more incriminating situations, he had managed to snap the handcuffs and run off.  That wasn't an option this time.

Not that he was scared or anything.  The temperature inside was just… cold, he tried telling himself, and it was causing him to shake slightly.  Someone should tell whoever was in charge of maintenance that it was June and summer, and summer was meant to be enjoyed.

It was right around this moment that Tommy realized that he would be spending summer vacation locked up and groaned.

Tommy kept his chin as high as he could while wearing this stupid jumpsuit and in these stupid power-dampening handcuffs, and had psyched himself up to such a level that the moment he was in his new cell, he was already prepared to start a fight with his new cellmate if the guy so much as looked at him funny.

Which he did, but not in the way Tommy expected.  Barely tearing his attention from his book (he was reading?  Who read in prison?  More importantly, how did people read when they read so _slowly?_ ), he raised his eyebrows with mild curiosity from the top bunk as Tommy put his hands through the small opening in the middle of the door.  Tommy looked away as the guard removed the wrist dampeners.  By the time Tommy turned back to him, his cellmate was back to being completely engrossed in the book.  The door to the small opening clanged shut, and Tommy heard the guard lock it before his footsteps faded.

Tommy shifted his weight, standing with his legs apart slightly.  He eyed the boy on the bed and crossed his arms.  Whoever-it-was was still reading.  Rude.

After several long, awkward seconds of almost-glaring, the other boy let out a longsuffering sigh and dog-eared his page.  He set the book down on the bed, shutting it at the last moment before looking up at Tommy and raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Tommy let him wait approximately a seventh of a second before he spoke up.

"Isn't this the part where you ask me what I'm in for or something?"

The other boy let out a breathy laugh—quiet and reserved, but still amused.  Not malicious, though, which was the weird part.  "You watch too much TV, kid."

Tommy should have been above rising to these, but he was already on edge and instinctively bristled.  "I'm not a _kid._ "  Who did this guy think he was?  He couldn't have been more than a year or two older than Tommy.

"You're what?  Thirteen, fourteen?"

" _Fifteen,_ " Tommy shot back.

"Well that makes all the difference."

Tommy bristled some more.  He was annoyed, yes.  Without any real provocation, though, he couldn't find the justification to be _completely_ angry.  There was still nothing but mild curiosity and a bit of friendly teasing in the tone.

"I'm Vic.  Victor."

"Tommy," he replied curtly.  Well, at least that was out of the way.

One side of Vic's mouth curved up.  "I'd say nice to meet you, but I don't expect that you're really feeling like any of this is nice, so I'll pass on the pleasantries."

Uh huh.

"You'll want to make sure your jumpsuit covers those cuffs when you go out, by the way," Vic continued, glancing down at his book as his fingers twitched.  "Not everyone here's a mutant.  Best to keep it hidden if you can.  You don't have to wear it when we're locked in here, either.  The suit."

Good to know.  Tommy reached up to unbutton it, and Vic's hand pointed towards a pair of lockers.  "Clothes are in there."

He felt marginally less ridiculous in the plain white clothing than in the jumpsuit.  As he finished pulling on what amounted to the only semi-real outfit he was going to have for the next two years, he risked another glance up at Vic who was, once again, reading.

"You a mutant too?"

A quick glance up from those sleepy brown eyes before they flicked down again.  "No.  Just seen enough to recognize you.  The last guy in here was one.  It's why they have the dampeners on the room."  Tommy was aware of those.  He still felt sluggish and he _hated_ it.  That and the realization that he was going to feel that way for the next two years.

He tilted his head back, appraising his new cellmate.  If Vic was going to ignore him, Tommy wouldn't feel weird about staring.  Or at least inspecting.  Tommy was pretty sure that he remembered the almost sleepy eyes being brown, set in a soft-featured face that managed to avoid being either delicate or feminine.  The shaggy brown hair needed a haircut, but Tommy couldn't help noticing that it framed his face well.  Okay, so maybe the guy was kind of cute.  And he wasn't built, but he wasn't scrawny either—there was definite arm muscle there.  And had nice hands.  That didn't mean Tommy was going to like him.

He crawled into the bottom bunk and burrowed into the blankets.  From what he understood, he had about fifteen minutes before lights out.  How stupid was that?  It wasn't even ten.

"Hey, Tommy."

"Yeah?"

"So what'd you do?"

Tommy was pretty sure he could hear the smile in his voice, but elected to ignore it.  He shrugged, before realizing that Vic couldn't see him.

"Blew up my school."

_That_ startled a laugh out of him.

"I won't underestimate you again, I guess."

The smug emotion that settled in Tommy's chest was the first semi-nice one that he could remember since coming here.

"What about you?"

A pause.  The sound of a page turning.  "Burned down a few things I shouldn't have."

Well weren't they just the peachiest pair of demolitionists.

* * *

Tommy's surprise was palpable when, two days later, Vic walked in from rec time—something that Tommy had studiously been avoiding for as long as he was allowed—and let out an amused chuckle at the sight of him.  Tommy had wedged himself in the corner near the front of the bed, sitting sideways across it with his back on the wall and his legs stretched over where the pillow would have been if it hadn't been cushioning Tommy's back.  His arms were crossed, his face set stubbornly in an immovable expression.

"Careful, it'll stick that way.  I'm not sure it already hasn't."

Tommy turned, mouth twisting into what was almost a sulk.  Vic had his hands in his pockets and was smiling slightly as he leaned back against the door.  He had kind of a nice smile.  Stupid roommate.  "How would you know?  Don't you have your stupid book to be reading?"

"Finished it."

Oh, well so clearly he had nothing else to do so he was deigning to talk to Tommy.  How generous of him.

"But really, moping in here isn't going to fix anything."

"Are you seriously going to give me some bullshit about making the best of any situation?  Because if I had a day off this stupid sentence for every time someone's told me that—"

"So your life sucks," Vic interrupted, raising his eyebrows, voice still as mild as ever.  "Heard it before.  If it sucked that bad, then at least you're in here and don't have to deal with it anymore."  Tommy goggled at him.  People didn't _say_ shit like that.  "And I can promise, for every sob story you give me, there's one that's worse.  So I guess you've got two options.  You can convince yourself that everything sucks and will be that way forever, or you can deal with it."  He shrugged.  "I can promise that one of those options will cause you a lot less heartburn."

Tommy clenched his jaw.  Who did this asshole think he was, lecturing him like this?  And he wasn't even being a jerk about it.  Tommy wished that he had been.

"Why're you even bothering to say this?  You getting brownie points if you're nice?"

Vic snorted, still managing to look amused.  Bastard.  "No, I just didn't want to deal with a sulky roommate.  I have better things to do than give you pep talks, but I still have one spot left in my good deed quota for the month.  Well.  Had."

Tommy guessed he could believe that and tried not to think it was funny.

He shifted, sitting up slightly so that he was sitting cross-legged instead of stretched out, and uncrossed his arms to rest his elbows on his thighs.

"So… what were you reading, anyway?"

Tommy surprised himself by asking.  Oddly enough, Vic didn't look startled at all.  He just answered.  "Hunger Games.  Read it?"

Tommy shook his head.

"Huh.  Name sound familiar at all?"

"Uh… yeah, I… think so."  Now that he thought about it…  "What's it about?"

Vic was over at his bunk in two strides, reaching under the mattress (stupid tall roommate with his stupid long legs) and pulling out the book.  Plopping himself down on the edge of the bed across from Tommy, he held it out to him.  Tommy thumbed through the worn pages gingerly.

"So it's set hundreds of years in the future, after everything's completely messed up—"

"It isn't _now?_ "

Vic rolled his eyes good-naturedly.  "You'd think so, but…"

* * *

Vic made things tolerable, Tommy would actually admit when he was in a relatively good mood.  They weren't bosom buddies or anything, but there seemed to be a definite acceptance that he and Vic knew each other, which for some reason seemed to give Tommy some small form of what he might call, if he wasn't convinced that Vic would laugh at him, "street cred."  No one seemed to want to annoy Vic, though he wasn't particularly feared.  No, if Tommy had to, he might guess that it was because you _couldn't_ annoy Vic, so why bother trying.

The thing that made Tommy the unhappiest, besides not being able to move quickly, was knowing that summer had started and he couldn't enjoy a damn bit of it.  Apparently idle hands made the devil's work or something (wasn't that how that stupid saying went?  His mom probably would have been disappointed that he had forgotten it.  Good.) because they didn't waste any time getting them started on studies despite the fact that it was summer.  Great.  On the bright side, since his school had cancelled the remainder of the school year, he had technically passed ninth grade.

Yeah, bright side.  Right.

Tommy at least had an outlet for all of this pent-up energy.  While Vic's presence might have forestalled conflict, his name wasn't some kind of guardian angel that automatically instilled awe and fear of Tommy when Vic wasn't around.  Tommy wouldn't have even wanted it that way.  He could deal with his own shit, thanks.

And so while he wasn't diminutive or weak-looking, he had never been the bulkiest or tallest kid in his class, and what was naturally a kind of pouty face seemed to make a few of the other guys think that he was a good target for intimidation.  Tommy quickly proved most of them wrong.  No, he might not be huge, but he was a scrappy little bastard and not only did he know where to make the hits count, but he didn't care where he got hit in the process.

Luke Benson, however, was a consistent problem.  Tommy honestly couldn't figure out why the kid seemed to have it out for him so bad.  They were approximately the same age and size, so it wasn't exactly your typical larger-guy-picks-on-smaller-one-because-he-can scenario.  And it definitely wasn't a bullying-of-helpless-victim thing—Tommy would give back as good as he got.  He just thought the entire thing was stupid.

He asked Vic about it.  Not in so many words—he didn't want Vic to think he was whining, or asking for help.  He just wanted to know what the guy's problem was.  Tommy had already figured out, as he suspected many others locked up with him had, that Vic was the person who you went to for information.

"Benson?" Vic murmured, looking up.  He had been engrossed in a battered copy of something with a faded cover that had the length and text size of something that Tommy only ever thought someone would have been forced to read in a Senior AP English class.  Vic was actually looking at him, though, and not going immediately back to whatever War and Peace he was reading over there.  Tommy could remember very clearly the first time he actually had managed to keep Vic's attention for more than a few seconds.  A surge of smug, happy, and embarrassed all at the same time.  "What about him?"

"He just seems to have a stick up his ass is all.  I was wondering if you knew why."

"And you expect me to know?"

Tommy reached out with his socked foot to give Vic's thigh a shove with his heel.  They were sitting on Tommy's bed, as they usually did, Tommy crosslegged in the corner.  Vic sat  with his back to the wall, his legs stretched out over the covers.

"Okay, okay."  He actually set down the book, though he kept his index finger between the pages.  "No, I don't know much about him.  Your age.  Think he's in for aggravated assault.  That means—"

"I know what it means," Tommy snapped.  Christ.  He had seen Law and Order just like anyone else.  "So he's a dick professionally."  Tommy thought he was rather clever for that remark.

"Well, no, given that he's not being paid to be here any more than you are."

Leave it to Vic.  "What I _meant_ was that he just seems to be a dick in general.  Always starting shit about stupid things, mouthing off about whatever, can't seem to get along with anyone—"  Tommy broke off at the expression on Vic's face, which looked like he couldn't believe what he was hearing, but thought that whatever it was, it was really funny.  " _What?_ "

"Nothing."

Tommy's expression made it very obvious how much shit he thought this was.

"Just…"  Vic shrugged.  "Doesn't sound familiar at all?"

Tommy's brow creased, his expression one of genuine confusion.  "What are you talking about?"

Vic just shook his head, getting that closed-off look in his eyes that Tommy knew meant he wasn't getting anything else out of him on this.  He let out a huge sigh.

" _Fine_ ," he moaned, head lolling back and to the side, sounding miserable but drawing a smile from Vic with his melodramatics.  Tommy barely managed to keep from smiling himself.  "But when I'm getting shanked with a toothbrush or something, then you'll be sorry for not—"

Vic was cracking up again, and Tommy straightened, trying to look affronted and not join him.  He was at least successful in not laughing.  "What?"

"Yeah, okay, toothbrush.  You really did watch too much TV."

"Well, what would _you_ recommend?"  Tommy was smiling again, in spite of himself.

Vic thought for a moment.  "Mm.  Plexiglass."

Tommy hadn't actually been expecting a serious answer.  "Yeah, let me just go grab some from that box over by the cafeteria."

Vic just laughed.

* * *

When Tommy fought, he fought to hurt.  It wasn't something he did all the time, but it still happened.  Sometimes he ended up in so much pain he could barely function.  Once or twice after this had happened, Vic had offered Tommy a couple of his treasured cigarettes, and on one memorable occasion they had shared a stash of weed.  Tommy, gaping, asked how he had gotten it, but Vic had just shook his head.  It was actually kind of weird, the trip, and Tommy wasn't entirely sure that he liked it.  It made him feel even more sluggish and out of touch with his movements, and he had enough of that shit with the power dampeners.

But as many times as he lost, sometimes he won.  The next time he and Benson squared off, Tommy got off with a couple of bruises.  Benson could barely walk.

The situation escalated quickly, set off by something that Tommy said, he thought, but he couldn't be sure, and it ended just as quickly when they heard someone coming.  Tommy ran in one direction, wiping blood off of his lip.  Benson stumbled in another.  Tommy had just darted around a corner when he heard one of the guards snarling, "Hey, what the hell are you doing?"

Tommy, unseen and wanting to avoid trouble, booked it.

* * *

Later that night, instead of the normal alarm that warned them that it was time to get up and dressed, Tommy woke up to a banging on the door.

"Thomas Shepherd!"

Blinking blearily, Tommy could hear a groggy, "What?" coming from the top bunk.  He struggled to sit up.

"You have five minutes to get dressed with your hands out."

Stumbling out of his bed, he wasn't able to suppress a " _Fuck"_ as he stubbed his toe on the hard ground.  The guard banged on the door again as a warning.  Right.  No profanity.  Yeah, like that one was enforceable.  Scrambling to shove the right appendages into the right holes, he finally managed to get on his clothing.  By then, his eyesight had adjusted enough to see Vic's shadowy form propped up slightly.

"Tommy?  What's going on?"  Though his voice was hoarse with sleep, he managed to stay coherent, as always.

"I dunno," Tommy mumbled back, worry beginning to settle in the pit of his stomach.  He put his hands out through the small window, feeling the familiar sensation of the shackles closing around his wrists, and stepped back to let the door open.  The guard grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him out, letting Tommy stumble for a few seconds as he locked it once again, before leading him off.

"Where'm I goin'?" he asked, still trying to shake off the sleep.

The man led him down the halls for a few minutes without answering.  Tommy was beginning to wake up enough to start conjuring up horrible potential scenariosbefore they halted in front of what looked like a door to another cell.

"'M I transferrin'?" Tommy looked back and forth between it and the man who was unlocking it, confused.  The idea was surprisingly upsetting to him.  As far as juvie roommates went, Tommy supposed that Vic wasn't all that bad.  At least as bad as his next roommate could be.

"For the next two days.  Maybe isolation will cause you to think twice before assaulting other inmates."

Tommy was awake now.  _No fucking way…_   He gawped at the man, mind trying to come up with some other situation in which this exact set of events could be happening—but no, he was being shoved into the cell and the door was getting locked behind him.

The little shit.  He had _told._   He had squealed, gotten Tommy in trouble and probably got himself out of it in the first place because he knew that Tommy wouldn't tell—

"Hey!" he screamed, lifting one foot to kick at the door.  They hadn't even let him bring his shoes.  " _Hey!_   _HEY!_ "  One last vicious kick, and Tommy whirled away from the door in frustration.  "Mother _fuckers!_ "

Stalking over to a back corner, Tommy leaned against it and slid down onto the ground, propping his elbows on his knees and leaning his head into his hands, fingers worrying through his hair.

They didn't even bother to remove the shackles until morning.

* * *

It was a much more subdued Tommy that returned to his cell two days later.  Not because he had learned his lesson—hell no—but because he had hardly slept.  He wouldn't consider many of his fellow inmates to be his friends—wouldn't consider really any of them to be, actually, except maybe Vic, who Tommy was beginning to suspect just tolerated him because he had to live with Tommy, and that kinda sucked.  But Tommy liked being _around_ people.  He could talk to them and listen to them even when they weren't talking to him; he could watch them and know that even if his own life was boring as hell shit was happening with other people even if it was just as boring and that made him feel better somehow.  Or something.  Whatever.  He didn't need to be able to articulate it to anyone.

Tommy had hoped Vic would look relieved when he finally shuffled back in, going through the now automatic procedure of the power dampening cuffs, but no; it was the same, impassive face as always.

"What happened to you?"

"Isolation."

"For what?"

"Fighting."

Tommy's voice was curt and quiet, and he didn't even look at Vic as he headed straight for the bed and curled up under the blankets.  He heard the mattress above him squeak, and Vic's head peered over the edge.

"With Benson?"

Tommy tried not to pay attention to the way Vic's hair dangled, but it annoyed him too much.  "You need a haircut."

"I thought no one saw you."

_They didn't.  But the little shit snitched on me._   "I wasn't exactly payin' attention to who was around."

Vic's eyes tightened almost imperceptibly; Tommy refused to think why he was paying enough attention to Vic's face to notice that.  "That's not what it sounded—"

"Good night, Vic."  And despite it only being nine in the evening, Tommy turned around and closed his eyes.

* * *

While Tommy would have liked to have just beaten Luke Benson into a pulp, that wasn't really an option.  He wasn't at _all_ keen to get stuck back in isolation again, and mentioning it to someone else just made him as much of a snitch as Benson.  So he figured he'd wait for his opportunity, if it ever came up.  He would have liked to think it would, but he was beginning to have a bit less faith in luck lately.

He was thinking over green beans in the cafeteria and half-chatting with Ben, a friend of Vic's, about video games they were missing, when Vic himself slid into the seat next to him.  Tommy glanced over at Vic, then back in the direction from which he had come.  "Thought you were busy with Mike over there."

"Was.  Just needed to talk to him for a few minutes."

"Oh?  Wrah abou'?"

Vic swatted at Tommy's shoulder lightly.  "Don't talk with your mouth full."  Tommy swallowed the mouthful of vegetables.  "Some problems he's having.  Someone's saying things they shouldn't."

"Who's sayin' what?"

"The fact that he doesn't know is the problem."

"So you don't know who's sayin' it _or_ what's bein' said.  But it's still a problem.  Yeah, okay."  Tommy heard Ben snicker.

Vic rolled his eyes.  "We know what's being _said_ , we just don't know who's saying it."

"So what _is_ bein' said?"  Tommy glanced over his shoulder at Mike.  The kid was their resident obligatory mountain: biceps the size of Vic's head and twice as tall as Tommy.  Who the hell would fuck with a guy like that?

"Mind your own business."

"Do I ever?"

"Point."  Vic paused, and for a moment, Tommy thought he actually wasn't going to tell him.  After a pause, however, Vic continued.

"Someone's been spreading a few rumors about what he did to get stuck in here."

"Don't see why it matters."

"You wouldn't."  At Tommy's indignant glare, Vic and Ben exchanged a look and chuckled.  "There are certain things that, if someone finds out you did to get in here, your life gets very unpleasant."  He glanced back at Mike as well.  "…No matter how much you resemble the Hulk."

"So why's he talking to you?"

"He thought I might have theories on who's doing it."

"Why?"

"You ask too many questions."

"Well, _do_ you have any?"

Vic just shook his head.  "Told him I'd look into it, though."

"Christ.  You sound like someone in a fucking spy movie.  Do you just say that shit to make yourself sound special?"

"Maybe."

Tommy rolled his eyes and shoveled the rest of his green beans into his mouth, trying not to die of either asphyxiation or embarrassment a few moments later as Vic pounded his choking form on the back.

* * *

Benson was gone a week later.

Tommy hadn't been around for any of the fiasco, but he heard about it afterwards from one of the more gossipy guys at rec time.  Mike had nearly killed the boy, given him a thorough pounding and sending him to the hospital before one of the guards had actually had to pull out pepper spray.  Both boys had been transferred.

"…So apparently Mike figured out that Benson was the one shit-talking him and tried to kill him."

"Huh."  Vic tilted his head in acknowledgement of what Tommy had said (his nose was, of course, buried in a book).  "Didn't think that little prick would have had it in him, but shows what I know."

Yeah, _right._

"Apparently," Tommy continued, shifting to sitting on his knees, a bit closer to Vic,  not exactly peering at him, but definitely observing him carefully.  "Apparently Benson was stupid enough to be laughing with a couple of his friends about how he 'pulled one over' on some kid, I'm assuming Mike, or some shit—"

"Uh huh."

"—So he went after him yesterday, right at the end of dinner.  Almost broke his neck."

"Glad that entire situation is solved, then."  Another page turn.

"You know, I kinda have to wonder if someone might've—"

"Tommy."

He blinked.  "Yeah?"

"Will you just shut up?"  Vic was looking at him in that amused-but-exasperated way again.

"So you didn't…"

There was a pause that was a beat longer than Tommy considered natural.

"We're not having this conversation, Thomas."

Tommy was glad that Vic had already returned to his book.  He wasn't sure what he would have done if Vic had seen the shade of red Tommy had gone.

Stupid pale skin.

* * *

Of course, the warm-fuzzies couldn't last for long.  That would have actually been fortunate.  So, as was only to be expected, that weekend was the weekend that his mother visited for the first time.

He seriously considered declining, but… somewhere in there, he hoped, he _prayed_ , that maybe she would have realized how much she missed him.  Realized that this entire disaster wasn't him _trying_ to destroy the school.  That he hadn't been _trying_ to hurt her.  That instead of indulging in being persecuted, she would be willing to actually talk for once.

So he had gone.  He had sat through her assurances—" _Thomas, I'll get you the help that you_ need"—her comments about Frank—" _It's no wonder, given the way that man acted_ "—and her pleas for understanding—" _Thomas, you_ know _how much you've hurt me_ "—and left wishing he had a desk to crawl under.  Left him trying to shut the entire thing out of his mind.  Left him wondering if the guards would actually shoot him if he made a run for the fence and kind of hoping that the answer was yes.

"You look awful."

"Oh, thanks."  Tommy half-heartedly made a face at him and walked over to nudge at his shoulder.  Tommy was commandeering Vic's usual spot, but Vic had made a habit of commandeering Tommy's bed weeks ago, so Tommy wasn't repentant in the slightest.  Vic scooted over obligingly, and Tommy sat next to him.

"My mother came today."

This was enough to give Vic pause and turn to look at Tommy, surprise evident in his usually languid eyes.

Tommy glanced over, but quickly looked away and to the side, eyes focusing intently on the ground.  He shrugged.  "It kinda sucked."

He heard Vic take a deep, slow breath.

"Remember what I told you, after your first couple of days in here?"

"I'm _not_ moping—"

"I know you're not."  Vic's voice was practical and matter-of-fact, for which Tommy was grateful.  His head might have exploded if Vic ever came across as _soothing._ "I meant the other part.  You're in here.  Yeah, it might suck, but you don't have to deal with the people out _there_ until you want to.  Or at all.  You won't have to by the time you're out."

"But it's not that _easy_."

"Isn't it?"

Tommy opened his mouth to reply, eyes still focused firmly on the ground, but then closed it again.

Vic sighed.

"Hey."  Tommy turned his head, reacting involuntarily to the tone in Vic's voice.  "Look.  Just… forget about it for now.  It won't be something you'll have to deal with for a while, and when you know it's coming up agai—nnn?"

Tommy, for the life of him, couldn't figure out what in the world made him crazy enough to go for it.  Maybe the power dampeners shortened out for a split second, granted the amount of time it took for him to get the idea, for him to make the decision, and then for him to _do_ it, leaning forward across the several inches of space between them and pressing his lips to Vic's.

Tommy hadn't done a ton of kissing.  There had been a few girls back in school, and the time he had made out with Frank Choo to piss his mother off (that had the added benefit of nearly _literally_ giving his father a coronary), but in general, his experience with kissing actual people that he had actual feelings about (not that he had feelings about Vic or anything, because he was still just Tommy's stupid roommate) was fairly limited.  And Tommy was convinced that even though it wasn't reciprocated, kissing Vic was still the nicest kissing he had ever done.

Of course, then it hit him that it _wasn't_ being reciprocated and he sprang back, nearly falling off the bed.

If Tommy hadn't been in such a panic, he might have been pleased that he had managed to shock Vic so thoroughly.  His roommate's mouth was open slightly in surprise, face with no trace of the sleepy expression that he usually wore.

"I'm sorry," Tommy started to stammer out, though he really only got to "so" before choking off on it.  God, he was so _stupid_.  He couldn't believe he had done that; now Vic was going to punch or shank him or something—

"I didn't think you'd actually go for it," Vic said after a couple blinks.  Oh god.  He had been that obvious?  Great, now Vic probably thought that he was a head case or a faggot or something awful—

Vic's eyes met Tommy's for a moment, and Tommy could have sworn that his breath stopped, and then his face must have looked something along the lines of a kicked puppy or something because Vic's expression softened.  He looked like he was hesitating over something, but then—

"Aw, hell."  With a sigh that was equal parts resigned and eager (Tommy wasn't sure how you could be both, but this was Vic, so…) he reached out to slide a hand around to the back of Tommy's head, fingers tangling with the hair at the nape of his neck, before tugging him back in and pressing their lips together again, much longer this time.

* * *

Tommy didn't notice the change in himself, really, but other people did.  At first it just manifested in weird looks ("Since when does that kid actually smile?" Ben had asked), but within a few days, it became actual conversation with other inmates besides Vic.  These events, though not unheard of, had been notably rare before.  But after the kiss—well, the _kissing_ , because they had done a lot more kissing than just the once—between him and Vic, he found himself on much better terms with several other people and, to his own shock, in actual friendships.  Not directly because of Vic, though the idea did cross his mind, but because he found himself joking and laughing with the others instead of feeling completely out of place, as had been the norm over the few weeks since his incarceration.  He went from "the grumpy, scrappy little bastard" to "the cocky, scrappy little bastard," and since the latter acknowledged his sense of humor at least a bit, he was pleased with this distinction.

At one point he wondered if getting a secret boyfriend had really been the trick to making him more inclined to be social or if he had just finally started to realize that he could be comfortable around other people who were, in all honesty, much less likely to ostracize him for a reputation as a delinquent.  He never managed to puzzle out an answer, however, because he was so mortified over thinking of Vic as a boyfriend, and he didn't know if he was _allowed_ to call him that, even in his head, because yeah, it really felt like that was the case but they had never really said anything to that effect but Vic seemed to act like it when they were alone and Tommy certainly did and—

It was a subject that Tommy tried very hard not to think on again.

He couldn't deny, however, that heading back to his cell for the day and sitting next to Vic, not exactly cuddling but neither of them avoiding contact, was nice.  That, and talking to him about whatever—books that Vic had read and Tommy hadn't, or what they were going to do when they got out (Vic seemed fascinated with Tommy's super-speed, and made Tommy promise to show him when they got out, and couldn't seem to figure out why Tommy choked and went red at this comment).  Especially with their shoulders pressed together and maybe sometimes a hand on a knee or, if they were feeling particularly risky and their door was closed, sharing a cigarette or, more frequently, a quick, stolen kiss.

Lights out made them bolder, and it only took a few days for most nights to find one of them in the other's bunk, lips pressed against each other or what exposed skin they could find, legs tangled, fingers tracing hesitantly at first but more boldly as the nights went on over contours and muscles through their clothing.  Tommy was glad that it was dark the first time Vic's hand slipped under his shirt, around his waist, and up his back, because he could _feel_ the blood rushing to his face.  He was sort of grateful that for a while, nothing more than shirts came off because Tommy already figured that Vic might suspect he was at least a bit of a headcase, and wouldn't have wanted to confirm that or anything.

Of course, nights turned to weeks, and Tommy's hesitance gradually lessened, though didn't fade entirely.  Vic either sensed this or was impatient, since he got bolder, with both his hands and his mouth, and even though the first time something like _that_ happened Vic had to cover Tommy's mouth with his other hand and whisper at him, "Shh, shh, they'll hear us," and it was mortifying and Tommy thought he was going to die, Tommy grew bolder too.

Apparently Vic took this as cue to take things even further, and one night near the end of July, Tommy found himself lying on his stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, and Vic's hands tugging down his pants.  His breath was shallow with what might have been mistaken for anticipation, but if Tommy was honest with himself, was really mostly hesitation and nervousness.

"V-vic," he finally managed to squeak out, taking Vic's wrist and pushing it away slightly.  The hand stilled.

"Yeah?"  The breathy answer tickled Tommy's ear, and he shivered.

"'M not sure… I mean, I don't think…"  Tommy really had no idea how to articulate this.  Fooling around was one thing, and he really _enjoyed_ that, but sex was _sex_ and he knew that it probably shouldn't have been a big deal but it _was_ , and in the back of his head he remembered something about safe sex and condoms and how they didn't exactly hand them out with the clothes around here.

He felt a breathy chuckle against his neck, and Vic tugged his hand away from Tommy and squeezed the back of his thigh.  Tommy couldn't help shuddering— _that_ hadn't been nervousness.  "No need to be worried about it."

"Y-yeah, but I'm not…"  It hadn't exactly been something he had really _thought_ about because it had come up so quickly, and wasn't this supposed to be the sort of thing that you thought about first?  But then there was Vic, nuzzling at his neck, tugging gently at his ear with his teeth, and lightly tracing up Tommy's stomach with his fingers, and it was getting _hard_ to think, even about this…

"It's all right."  A kiss on the back of Tommy's neck.  "You know I love you, right?"

_Oh._

Well, there went _all_ thinking out the window.  Tommy probably shouldn't have let that happen, have been at least slightly suspicious of the timing of the confession or still at least cautious because there were usually _reasons_ he had reservations like that, but he was too preoccupied feeling like he had just started floating with the amount of happiness that had hit him all at once.

_Vic loved him._

"I…"  How did he respond?  How did he think?  How did he words?  "I… yeah," he managed to breathe out, managing to keep from giggling, but he couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face.  "I… I love you too."

Vic leaned in, and Tommy stopped grinning long enough to return the deep kiss.  Tommy leaned after him in protest when he pulled away, but Vic went to murmur in Tommy's ear.  "So you trust me, right?"

Tommy nodded breathlessly, not trusting himself to speak.

Vic went to tug at Tommy's waistband again.  This time, Tommy didn't stop him.

* * *

Tommy was ridiculously sore the next day.  He didn't even care.

His good mood became even more pronounced, and even began to elicit some good-natured teasing from his friends—yes, he actually had those now—about how he hadn't been careful and now he had gotten attached to the place.  Tommy just rolled his eyes and laughed along with them.

It didn't hurt that since they had actually had sex—thinking of it in those terms always seemed to give Tommy an illicit thrill that helped push aside any reservations that he might have—Vic had been even more forward with his affections.  That's not to say that they did anything in front of anyone else—no, that would have been asking for trouble, no matter who you were, and both of them knew it—but Tommy's first time wasn't the last, and once Vic even grabbed him and tugged him away into one of the rare, secluded areas for a few minutes and pushed him up against the wall, kissing the back of his neck as his hands found Tommy's waist and Tommy gasped and squeezed his eyes closed and bit his lip to keep from making noise.

Later that evening, Vic teasingly asked if Tommy had enjoyed it.  As if he didn't already know.

"God," Tommy laughed, burying his nose into the now-familiar crook where Vic's neck met his shoulder.  "I thought someone was gonna—"  He broke off with another laugh, still shocked that they had actually _done_ that.

"Made it better, though, didn't it?"

Tommy shivered at Vic's fingers tracing their way down his neck, and was inclined to agree with just about anything Vic was saying right now.  "Yeah."

"I can think of a few more things that we could do," he mumbled.  "That are pretty hot."

Once again, Tommy was inclined to agree to anything.

* * *

A couple of weeks later, Vic suggested something that Tommy almost refused.  Almost.

But Vic asked so nicely, and so persuasively.  Tommy couldn't say no.

And so, that was why it was another boy's hands around his waist, sliding up his leg.  The heat of another person's breath on the back of his neck.  Tommy kept his eyes shut and tried to pretend they were Vic, but neither of them were and he knew that because Vic was over there, watching.

That evening, Vic held him and kissed him, telling him that it was one of the sexiest things he had ever seen.  Tommy tried to laugh, tried to let Vic distract him, but for the rest of the night there was a strange tight, tickling sensation in the back of his nose and throat and he couldn't figure out why.

* * *

"You fuck him yet?"

A laugh.  Vic's laugh.  "Of course."

Tommy froze, a couple of feet from turning the corner.  _What?_

"Lucky bastard.  Can think of a few people who would like to be in your shoes."

He knew he shouldn't listen.  Should make his presence known, walk in like he hadn't heard anything, and give Vic his stupid letter.

The tell-tale exhalation of a cigarette.  So that's why they were hiding.  That, and they were obviously discussing something they didn't want anyone hearing.

"Mm.  You interested?"

A pause.  "…Why?"

"Kid's smitten with me."  Another breath of the cigarette.  "And I might have led him to think it was reciprocated."

"And what, you think he'll let someone fuck him if you ask him?"  Vic chuckled again, but didn't speak.  Another pause.  Tommy couldn't breathe.

"You son of a bitch.  You've already done it."

"Mm."  Tommy could see, in his mind's eye, the way Vic was flicking his wrist to get the ash off of his cigarette.  "They made it worth my while, though.  What are _you_ going to do for _me?_ "

"How about some information?"

"That I _don't_ know?" Vic scoffed.

"So you know they've almost got you pinned."

Tommy could hear Vic's cough, could picture that rare expression of shock.  " _What?_ "

"They don't know it's you specifically, but they've got the area pinpointed.  Where the cells are.  Even if you get rid of your shit before they search it, they're not gonna give up easy."

There was a long sigh, then a few moments of silence.  Tommy needed to go, needed to run, pretend he had never heard any of this, but—

"Hey, Vic."

"What."

" _How_ smitten?"

Another long pause.  Tommy waited, praying.  Maybe he'd hear a snarl of rejection, or even better, the smack of a fist hitting a face.

But no.  The low chuckle, the voice which had only last night been sighing into Tommy's hair.

"You're messed up, Ben.  I like it."

Tommy had never wanted his powers back more as he fled.

* * *

"Hey, Tommy, did—what's wrong?"

Tommy didn't turn his head as he went through the motions.  Hands through the little sliding door, shackles off, pull hands back, door shuts and locks.  Tommy just stood there, staring at the small metal square .

"Tommy?"

He didn't answer, squeezing his eyes shut.

He heard the springs in the shitty mattress creak as Vic stood, the faint footsteps of his bare feet on the ground.  And then there was a hand at his waist, arms enveloping him, a chin on his shoulder and a gentle nuzzle at his cheek.  For a moment, Tommy wavered.  He wanted nothing more than to just lean back in Vic's arms, forget what he had heard.  Maybe he had completely misunderstood the entire situation.  They could have been talking about something completely different.  Because this was Vic; Vic, who had never yelled at him, or called him a freak, or been disappointed in him because Tommy had done something stupid.  Vic loved him, which was more than he could say for anyone else.

_"You fuck him yet?"_

_"Of course."_

Tommy's shoulders tensed.

_"You interested?"_

He could have almost sworn that his powers had returned, the speed at which his arm jerked back.  The elbow connected solidly with Vic's stomach.

" _You're messed up, Ben.  I like it."_

"Wha—"  It was all that Vic could get out before Tommy whirled, shoving at his chest, knocking him to the ground.

"What were you planning to do?" Tommy snarled.  "Fuck me?  Tell everyone about it, how this stupid _kid_ who was… who thought…"  God, he couldn't even say it.

Vic had managed to stand, and his eyes had narrowed, his face taking on a hard, flinty expression that Tommy had never seen on him before.

"Don't do anything stupid, Tommy."

"Like _what?_   _Let_ you fuck me?"  Tommy had to pause for a moment, stomach churning as his thoughts caught up with his words.  "Or let _other_ people, because you ask me?  As a _favor_ to them."  Vic's eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, but Tommy knew him too well by now to miss it.  "Tell the cops that I'm smuggling in _drugs?_   Take the heat for _you?_ "

Tommy could sense the gears in Vic's head turning, the muscles on his face shifting as he tried to find some way to talk himself out of this situation.  Tommy wasn't going to give him the chance.

His fist connected solidly with Vic's face.  Instead of just stumbling back again, shocked, however, it was Vic's turn to surprise Tommy.  Recovering quickly after the hit, he tackled Tommy to the ground.  Though there was a moment of intense pain as his head cracked against the concrete, Tommy was too furious to stay down for long.  Vic could fight, yes, but Tommy had done a lot _more_ fighting.  And despite not having his powers, he was still strong enough to lever Vic off of him and kick him backwards, sending him smacking into the wall next to the bed as Tommy scrambled up and over.

Tommy felt a sudden pain in his jaw—Vic could _punch_ —but he didn't care.  This time, he managed to be the one who was pinning Vic, his hands finding Vic's throat and squeezing.  He saw Vic's hand reach over towards the bed—stupid of him, why would he do that, it wasn't going to help—

And then an intense pain ripped through Tommy's left shoulder, bad enough this time for Tommy to let out a scream and recoil.  Lifting a hand to his shoulder as he tried to get back to his feet, he felt something wet and sticky.  Moments later, the smell of copper assaulted his nose.

The two stared at each other wildly for a moment, the shouts of alarm coming from the guards outside growing nearer.  There was the sound of a key in the door, and Tommy knew that they were both this close to being fucked but he didn't care—

And then the door opened.

At first, Tommy couldn't figure out why he felt so euphoric.  But then, as the entire situation seemed to slow, aside from Tommy himself, it clicked.  Not consciously, but enough.

They should have known better than to open a door to a power-dampened room, but that was their problem now, not his.

He knew that Vic could probably barely see him when he moved, an ugly laugh escaping his lips, to grab the older boy's head and slam it into the wall.  A shove sent Vic flying across the room, and as Tommy took a few seconds to spit the blood out of his mouth, some part of him realized that he could probably blow up the wall and get out of here for good, but he had more important things on his mind.

Like seeing Vic a bloody mess.

And then he was over next to Vic, feeling that sensation that had overcome him that day that he had blown up the school.  And hey, if he had destroyed concrete, human muscle and bone shouldn't be too hard, should it?

And then there was someone tackling him from behind—no, two someones.  He whirled and felt them fly off, but not before another stabbing pain, this time in his thigh.  Seconds later, his vision began to cloud and go black and—

He stumbled back and looked down to see a syringe.

Motherfuckers.

* * *

He spent a week in isolation this time.  Twice during his visit, they let a nurse in to treat his shoulder.  He would stick some disgusting smelling stuff on it, inspect it for infection, then leave without saying a word.

It hurt like hell, but not as badly as getting it stitched up.  He hadn't gotten any anesthetic when they had pulled the piece of the shank ( _plexiglass_ , Tommy had noticed as he tried to contain a sob—the fucker had scored it so it would break off) out of his shoulder, or when they had sewn it up—twenty-seven stitches in all.

They transferred him immediately after.  He couldn't really bring himself to give a single fuck.  Not when they told him he'd be getting more time on his sentence for assault and having contraband in his cell—looks like Vic had won that one after all—and other bullshit.  Not when they told him that if he caused trouble in the new place, he wouldn't like where he got sent.  Not when they hauled him out to the bus in shackles.

Tommy was just glad to be gone.

* * *

He did his best to forget, and didn't do an especially bad job.

The new facility was even further away from Springfield, all the way in Middlesex County.  Tommy jumped at the chance to distance himself from back there.  The way he rationalized it to himself, forced as it might be, he was no longer in Vic's shadow, and it was time to be his own damn person.

And he did enjoy his own measure of popularity.  He couldn't let himself wallow—so he shoved it away.  He joked and laughed, gained a reputation as someone who was actually a pretty cool guy.  And somewhere along the way, it stopped being completely fake.

And it didn't hurt that there were _girls_ here, either.

Yes, of course, they kept them separated most of the time.  But a bigger facility meant a bigger number of inmates, and this one included females.  It wouldn't have been a lie to say that Tommy was so relieved to see an actual girl for the first time in months that it put him in a much better mood.  It let him practice his flirting, too.  It was a perverse sense of determination that he _not_ let his experiences with Vic affect him that led to his "relationship" with Jessica.  She wasn't exactly the most shining example of humanity: shallow, a bit of a bitch.  Promiscuous.  And not terribly bright, either.  But she was attractive, hung on him when they were all allowed recreation time.  And she had been in that institution long enough to know the habits of the guards, little secret nooks where you could get a few minutes of privacy…  Tommy refused to think of the similarities.  That knowledge was the kind of thing that _anyone_ figured out after long enough.

It was pathetically easy for Tommy to fuck her.

It didn't last long.  He apparently wasn't the only one doing so, which led to an exchanging of blows several days later.  Tommy knew that it was a stupid thing to fight about, even when he was going after the offended party, even when the guards hauled the two boys off each other and threw them both in isolation.  Tommy didn't care.

The weeks went by, and so did the girls.  Casual flirtations—never an actual relationship, rarely anything more than kissing.  And never any promises.  Alexis, Ellie, some chick whose name started with an "R."  There was—maybe—once—Tina—a time where lazy flirtations and stolen moments of passionate hormonal makeouts turned into something sweeter, more intimate—emotionally—and left Tommy feeling vulnerable.  He hated it.  He ran.  He felt like a jerk for it, but he couldn't afford to get attached, he told himself.  She would be out too soon, and he… didn't like to think of the future.  But god, sometimes when he didn't manage to stop himself from thinking about it in time, he desperately wished that it could have actually been something.

Lisa he liked.  Sort of.  Enough.  With her it was spaciness, not sweetness, and it was a nice relief.  She was a bit on the odd side, and Tommy liked that.  And if he also liked the fact that she made it easy to not be serious, well, no one ever said that he was perfect.

As many girls as there were, there were, of course, far more fights.  In what even his friends commented on as a direct contradiction to his social nature, he was always beating on someone—and getting beaten on by that person—multiple times a week.  Tina tried to talk him out of it; later, Lisa tried to point out that they were eventually going to have enough with it.  One smartass asked once how Tommy could be such a cool guy around his friends and still get into the fights.  Tommy just shrugged and said that he avoided making friends with people he wanted to punch in the face.  Didn't you?

But Lisa was right, and Tommy never even got the chance to tell her so.

* * *

It wasn't a particularly bad fight that did it; hell, Tommy wasn't even sure that it was that specific one that caused it.  They certainly had the paperwork for a transfer ready ridiculously quickly, and his mother came out that day.

_That_ was the part that made him care.  Happy fucking November.

He sat with her—in power dampeners, of course, though they had been nice enough to let him wear the clothes in which he had been admitted even though they were now uncomfortably tight—a little shell-shocked at seeing her for the first time in what had to be almost six months.  He listened to the suit across from the desk regale her with his "exploits" while he had been in juvie.  Benson was included.  So was Vic, and the "contraband" that he had been "hiding" in his cell.  Tommy had long ago given up protesting his innocence; no one believed a delinquent.  And then there were the fights in this new place.  Apparently, the man told Mary soberly as she tried and failed to repress her sniffles (although they both looked like they were going to a fucking funeral, Tommy knew that the woman was probably enjoying indulging in every fucking second of it, and for that matter probably so was this asshole), they just couldn't afford to keep someone as volatile as him with these facilities, especially when he had already proven that the tiniest second of opportunity would have him misusing his powers again.

That wasn't fair, Tommy thought, trying unsuccessfully to stuff the familiar, guilty knot in his stomach back into the container in which he had managed to contain it the last time his visit with his mother had ended.  _Back when Vic had—_   No.  He wouldn't think about that.  He would think about how unfair it was that they accused him of constant misuse of his powers.  That had only happened once, and it wasn't a _mis_ use of powers.  It was a completely justified one.

"There has recently been an opening in a facility—back in Springfield, so closer to your home—that is more suited to… cases like these."  He glanced quickly over at Tommy, who refused to gratify him with a change in expression.  "Your son will be held there until he is eighteen, after which a specialized tribunal will decide on an action, whether that is further incarceration or rehabilitation."

Tommy could see Mary nod out of the corner of his eye.  It was her shaky, hesitant one.  He pressed his eyes closed.

"While these current facilities have had measures in place for… for people like your son, this is specifically designed with this kind of thing in mind.  Those with… unusual or superhuman abilities…

"Mutants."  Tommy could hear the venom breaking through her voice.  He wasn't able to completely suppress a flinch at the word, but he kept his eyes closed.

"We'll need your consent to release full and permanent responsibility of your son to them.  We will do our best to inform you or answer any questions you might have, as its methods are somewhat… unorthodox, but you'll have to understand that much of it is confidential, so while it is understandable to be concerned about your son—"

"Stop calling him ' _my_ son'," she snapped.  "I don't care."  Tommy's eyes flew open and he involuntarily jerked his head over in her direction.  He had _never_ heard her this fed up before, so through with him that even she was tired of putting on the theatrics.  He felt his jaw lock up at the cold expression on her face.  The expression that just screamed _I don't care if I ever see him again._   Because that's what she had effectively just said, wasn't it?  "Just tell me where to sign."

For a moment, Tommy thought that something had cracked in his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

Tommy's motions were stilted, jerky, as he got on the bus.  He managed not to think about anything during the long drive.  For once, even though they made him and everything else slow and sluggish and _awful_ , the power dampeners helped, just a little bit.  The trip was miserable with them, yes.  But at the speed his mind typically moved, it would have been unbearable without them.

He might have cared that the building was enormous if he had been paying attention.  Might have noticed that it seemed way too huge to house all of the delinquent teen supers in the area, maybe even New Jersey.  Might have wondered why the interior seemed more like a hospital than the cinderblock contraptions in which he had been imprisoned before this.

They escorted Tommy to his cell: even more sparse than before.  A small white, square room with a cot, a sink, and a toilet.  And a camera.

Couldn't even piss in peace.  The crack in Tommy's chest splintered a bit more.

The moment they removed the dampeners, Tommy went over to the cot.  It wasn't bolted to the floor.  Their mistake.  He dragged it over to the corner, grabbing the bottom half and lifting it, pushing it so that it was now standing up, leaning against the wall.  He didn't doubt that anyone watching wondered what the hell he was doing.

He hauled himself up onto the edge, balancing precariously and ignoring the shaking in his hands.  He could reach the ceiling now, but it wouldn't stay that way for long.  Long enough, though.  Wrapping his hands around the camera, he managed to get a good grip on it before the cot slipped.  It, Tommy, and the now destroyed camera went crashing to the ground.  Tommy smacked his elbow on the concrete, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it.  Shoving the cot back where it had been, he kicked the remains of the camera into the opposite corner, ignoring the pounding on the door and the yells and threats.  He blocked them out, their demands for him to allow them to shackle his wrists with the power dampeners, the cold voice's eventual promise that he was welcome to eat when he decided to cooperate.

Tommy sat with his back squeezed as tightly into the corner as he could physically manage, knees tucked up to his chest and arms wrapped around his shins.  When the voices faded, he couldn't cover his mouth in time to cover the sound of a sob shattering his chest.

He pressed both hands over his mouth, wanting it to _stop_ but it _wouldn't_ and his shoulders were shaking and he had to cover his face with his hands and lower his head and just sob and he thought he'd never stop.

He couldn't let them see him cry.

* * *

Tommy tried, he really did.  He never would have lasted more than a day had the suffocating power dampeners not been in place, not with his typical metabolism, but he managed, out of sheer spite, to hold out for over twenty-four hours.  He might have gone longer, but a woman came by and tapped on his door.

"Thomas Shepherd.  We've prepared dinner for you."

He hated himself for sitting up quickly—both because of his pride and because doing so made his head spin so badly that he had to immediately lay down again.

"It's up to you whether or not to take it.  I would advise doing so sooner rather than later.  We can wait longer than you can."

Tommy pushed himself up again, much more slowly.  Okay.  That worked.  "J-just—"  The word stuck in his mouth, which was as dry as the fucking Atacama Desert.

"What was that?"

He cleared his throat and tried to swallow a few times.  "Just a second."

The small square in the center of the door slid open.

Stumbling over to the door in his bare feet and hating himself for it, he felt the familiar shackles closing solidly over his wrists.  His arms tensed and flexed with involuntary panic, but then he was pulling his arms back and the hole was closing, the door opening.  The woman stood there in a white lab coat, long blonde hair tucked behind her ears, face a cold mask.  Tommy might have thought she was hot if he weren't too busy thinking that she looked like a bitch.  She was flanked by two much larger men in official-looking uniforms.  Not police, though.  They moved to stand next to him, one on each side, and took his arms.

"Beefy escort, just for me?" he drawled.  "I'm flattered, gorgeous."  The bravado would have been more convincing had his voice not cracked twice when speaking.

Without a change of expression on her face, she turned and started down the hall, heels clicking and lab coat swishing.  Tommy followed, trying not to cringe when his stomach growled audibly, and realizing from the cold floor that they hadn't even bothered giving him any shoes.  Rude.

The woman turned to go through a door, and Tommy (involuntarily) followed.  He tried not to stare at a couch—an actual _couch_ —and tore his attention away from it to give the rest of the room a look.  Something about it threw him off, not just the couch and the comfortable-looking chair behind the desk, though that was weird.  It looked like it should contain bookshelves, for one.  As the door on the other end of the room opened, Tommy caught a glimpse of filing cabinets, but no books (that he could see, anyway).  The man who walked through was carrying a manila folder, and he used it to motion to the couch.

"Thomas.  Why don't you have a seat."

He didn't have much of a choice as his escorts tugged him over to it.  Tommy sat.  It wasn't particularly comfortable couch, but it was better than a cot.  The man nodded at the three who had brought him, and the two men and the hot—no, bitchy—doctor left as the other man sat down in the chair, opening the folder.

"So, Mr. Shepherd," he began mildly.  "I believe we have a few things to discuss."

"Like food," Tommy shot back immediately.  "You can get me something to eat or I ain't sayin' shit."

"The hostility isn't necessary, Thomas—"  But he was cut off by the door opening, and one of his escorts from before walked in with a tray that had a plate and a cup on it.  Tommy sat up a little bit straighter, unable to keep his eyes off of it, and hated himself for it.

The man set down the plate (paper) and spoon (metal) next to Tommy, thrusting the cup (Styrofoam) of apple juice into his hand.  Tommy had drunk the entire thing before he realized it, and pulled the plate up into his lap.  It wasn't a remarkable meal, some mashed potatoes with some unidentifiable chunks of meat floating in the gravy and some peas as a side, but to Tommy it could have been a lobster and filet mignon.  It was gone so quickly that for a moment he wasn't sure if his powers _had_ been given back to him temporarily, and he found himself involuntarily looking around for more.

"Now that you're finished, Thomas, I'd like to have a talk.  Have you answer some questions for me."

His eyes settled on the man, narrowing suspiciously.  Something was going on here… and then it clicked.

"Christ," he snarled.  "You're a shrink."  He was all too familiar with those; it had been a favorite habit of Mary's, dragging him to a new one every couple of months.  "Fuck no I'm not talking to you."

The man sighed.  God, Tommy wanted to punch the condescending expression off of his face.  "The hostility is not warranted, Thomas.  We're only trying to help you.  And," he continued, as Tommy rolled his eyes, "cooperate, and I'll see if I can't have Doctor Collins arrange for some more food."

Tommy knew that, as a shrink, the guy was probably way too observant to miss the eager expression that crossed his face.

"I thought so."  He thumbed through a few pieces of paper.  "Now, as I was saying…"

* * *

He gritted his teeth during the entire march back to his cell.  The food hadn't even been that great.  Why had he gone along with it, even a little?  He didn't need to make these jokers' job any easier.

His stomach growled again.

Right.

He glanced up as he entered the cell.  The camera was back, this time with a clear covering of something around it.  He didn't know what it was but he had a feeling that—

"I wouldn't try to break it," the woman—Doctor Collins?—informed him matter-of-factly.  "The electricity will be enough to knock you out for several hours.  Have you ever been tased, Thomas?"

He didn't dignify that with an answer.

"Someone will come and wake you tomorrow morning.  You will have fifteen minutes to shower and clean your teeth before we start."

Shower?  It took a moment for Tommy to spot the showerhead in the opposite corner of the room than the bed, and the drain underneath it.  Well shit _._   "Start _what?_ "

She didn't answer, and the door slid shut behind him.  He waited for the square in the door to open, for them to take off the shackles, but nothing happened.

Assholes.

* * *

The lights came on at the same moment that there was a banging on his door, and as he sat up groggily, the hole opened again.  Stumbling over to stick his hands through it hopefully, the dampeners came off.  "Fifteen minutes," came a disembodied voice, but Tommy had already stepped back, blinking as something else came tumbling through the opening.  Reaching over to sort through the pile, he realized that they had finally decided to give him a new set of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and even soap and shampoo.

"What, no conditioner?" he called after them, but they probably couldn't hear him anyway.  He shot a glare up at the camera, debating, but he was going to have to shower sometime.  Fuck it.  He hit the button on the wall.  Cold water.  Of course.

* * *

Though he was undeniably surly, he couldn't help wondering exactly _what_ it was that the Collins bitch wanted.  When he found out, however, he wished he had stayed in the cell.

"Speedster?"  It was an older man talking, one of several scientist-y types who were surrounding him as he walked in the door, looking too closely at him and leafing through papers on clipboards and in a couple of cases, despite him resisting, grabbing his face or his shoulder or something and pulling him in a certain direction so they could get a look athim.  He couldn't figure out what the hell was up with that.  He tried to pull away, but he had those stupid escorts again, and he was practically dragged, barefooted and annoyed, through rooms that reminded him vaguely of the hospital he had been to once as a kid to get his broken arm set.  "Fascinating, the resemblance…"  "And acquiring him at this age, too.  So convenient."  "He can _do_ that?  At range?  If that's the case, I'll need to devise more tests…"

Throughout all of this, Tommy was focusing on dodging the worst of the touches, feeling his shoulders tense up in the familiar panic of people he didn't want close _getting_ way too close.  His bare feet skidded on the tiled floor when he tried to plant his feet, and he couldn't get a good look around because there were so many people in his face but what he did see was really freaking him out and then—

"Strap him down."

" _What?_ " he yelped, planting his feet even more firmly than before and completely losing his balance for his effort.  Enough of them moved aside for the moment for him to see a metal table with restraints on it.  Christ.  It looked like something from Frankenstein.  They managed to haul him up onto it, but he didn't make it easy for them to tie him down.

"Thomas," he heard one of the scientists say.  "I'd advise you to cooperate."  Tommy whipped his head around to give the man a glare as he struggled, to no response.  "We can't really be held responsible when you break things resisting, can we?"

"I haven't _broken_ anything, motherfucker!" Tommy spat, but his snarl turned into a shriek as he felt a splintering pain in his left hand.  Turning his head to give it a panicked look, he saw his smallest finger dangling at an awkward angle as the scientist grabbed his ring finger next and—

Tommy's back arched in pain and he screamed again, looking up at the doctor who had been talking to him in shock.  They couldn't just _do_ that—yeah, he was a prisoner, but he was a _minor_ and it was illegal to torture people even if they were in jail—

"See?  Isn't that easier?"  The impersonal tone sent a shudder through Tommy as the straps around his wrists tightened.  The man wasn't looking at him like a human being; Tommy just felt like he belonged in a petri dish or under a microscope.  The man turned to another and spoke as if Tommy weren't there.  "Fascinating.  The increased resistance to trauma doesn't seem to be at all effective when his abilities are suppressed.  Take note that it doesn't seem to be an inherent physical attribute.  We'll have to determine if it's active only when he's running, or if it's simply a passive power, but it's a start."  Turning back to Tommy, he continued, calm as if he were talking about the weather.  "If you cooperate, you won't make this any more painful than it needs to be."

The fact that Tommy knew the man was being literal terrified him.

He struggled a bit more, on principle, but after a point there really _wasn't_ anything he could do.  One of the first things they did was push him onto his side and force him to curve his back so they could stick needles into his spine—one right below his third vertebrate, and one right at his waist.  They were attached to some sort of metal chip that pressed against his back once they had sunk all the way in, and they hurt like a _bitch._

"These are to ensure your cooperation," the scientist-in-charge, as Tommy had surmised, explained calmly, as if he were explaining a fact to a particularly dense student.  "They can read your neural signals, and if you attempt to use your powers without our express permission, then they will immediately sever your spinal cord, permanently paralyzing you from either the waist or the neck down, depending on the severity of the action."

Tommy could feel what little blood was left in his face draining out of it.  There was still half of his brain that was convinced this was some sort of sick joke.  This sort of thing only happened in movies.  It a was Nazi or Soviet Russian or some other horrible government kind of thing.  This _wasn't_ real.

"We can also activate it using a verbal command."

"But then you—I wouldn't be any good to you, if I were—"

"Paralyzed?  You're not any good to us if you try to kill us, either.  The choice between you or us isn't a difficult one to make."

Tommy couldn't speak, just mouthed wordlessly around the tightness in his throat.

"Again, I suggest that you cooperate."

As much as he hated that word now, he would only grow to loathe it more.

* * *

The head scientist's name was Doctor Ryans, and Tommy was certain that if he ever got the chance, he was going to kill the man.

Tommy decided this after the first day of the experiments, when he was sitting in his cell, pushing the bones in his fingers back into place and cringing at the pain.  He managed a makeshift splint from half of the toothbrush and the hem of his shirt, but it sucked.  The doctors didn't notice, or pretended not to notice, the injury, and even after it "healed" his ring finger remained crooked and his smallest one stuck out and wouldn't close properly into a fist.

It was a small mercy that the stupid spinal cord severing things—"behavioral modifiers," they called them—weren't something that they could leave in for days at a time, but they still sucked, causing little twinges of pain every time Tommy moved.  They became easier to ignore after a while, however, if only because there was usually worse pain or at least discomfort coming from some other source almost all the time.  They learned early on that Tommy would simply metabolize any sort of anesthetic off incredibly quickly without the power dampeners, and they had much more important scientific things to worry about than his comfort.  So they went without, and Tommy forced himself to learn that looking away from the scalpels and trying to pretend that they didn't exist maybe stopped it from hurting just a little bit.

At least, when he was actually able to move.  The first few times Tommy had woken up while they were slicing him open, he had just made it worse—nearly permanently injured himself on the scalpels that were making the incisions in his legs or feet, and even holding him down wasn't enough to make him able to stay _completely_ still during a vivisection or, subsequently, stitching all the way up the sides of his legs.

Of course, then they appeared to have acquired funding for a shiny new toy.  Tommy didn't know exactly what it was called, but was very aware of what it did.  They called it "Motor nerve induction paralysis."  Tommy called it hell.

It made the doctors' jobs easier, anyhow.  From then on, whenever the anesthetic wore off, Tommy would find himself unable to move—not even able to twitch—anywhere from the neck down.  He could still breathe, of course.  Blink.  And, of course, hear everything.  See everything, unless he closed his eyes.  And feel every last slice that went through his skin.

Tommy couldn't understand how a person could actually _spend time_ thinking up these kinds of things to do to a human being.  He might have been a delinquent, yeah.  He might have even been violent.  But he wasn't a monster.  Not like this.

Doctor Ryans even tried to talk him around to the idea of this being a "good" thing.  "You could be so _useful_ , you know.  Help people.  Turn your life around.  We're turning you into a living weapon, here.  Do you know how valuable that could make you if you decided to work with us instead of making us do _this?_ "

Tommy rolled his eyes and thought that the man didn't have the remotest chance of being convincing when Tommy had three needles buried in each arm at the joints and a horde of scientists taking notes on his body's reaction to whatever it was they were pumping him with now.

"Doc, my mother's Catholic.  You're gonna have to do _way_ better than that if you want to guilt trip me."

Ryans just sighed and shook his head, and as always, when Tommy let his snark fly, the testing seemed to get more painful for that day.

* * *

Tommy was shocked when, what seemed like weeks into the tests and experiments and whatever bullshit it was, they led him not to the laboratories, but to the cafeteria.  He hadn't even known there was a cafeteria.  He tried not to gape at the fact that he could see other people who weren't doctors.  Actual people his age.  He had kind of forgotten they had existed.

Apparently it was some kind of "reward" for good behavior.  Or, well, not atrocious behavior, because on his basest level, Tommy knew that he could never "cooperate" with these fuckers.  But there were times that he just couldn't find it in himself to fight.  He blamed it on the food, or lack thereof.  They didn't give him enough to feed a _normal_ teenager, let alone one who was spending several hours of the day with an increased metabolism.  Though there were times that having his powers back—even if he couldn't use them without permission, he didn't feel _sluggish_ when the dampeners were off—was amazing, they also took their toll.  Especially, Tommy thought sourly, in this shitty facility.

He didn't socialize this time.  It wasn't (fully) that he didn't think there was no point, but the guards discouraged it, looking at you suspiciously if you spoke together for more than a few minutes.  So Tommy got a few names and identified a few people around the place, sure, but he never made any friends.  A couple of acquaintances, maybe, and it was one of these that pointed out, when he observed that there seemed to be a few fewer guards that day as well as a lack of many of the doctors, that it was New Year's Eve.  It took Tommy the rest of the ten minutes he was allowed to eat to wrap his head around this.  Hadn't it just been _November?_

Tommy's stomach twisted when he realized that he had even missed Christmas.

* * *

That was one of the last days that he had any sense of time.  He began to realize the mentality behind scratching tally marks onto walls of cells, but he couldn't motivate himself to do it.  Why count days?  It only made it that much more depressing, especially considering what most of his consisted of.

Poking; prodding; probing; testing; constant pain during it all, at least in his back.  He could control the explosions now, much to Doctor Ryans' delight, but Tommy wished ferociously that he had never been born with the ability to cause them.  Most days he had at least one needle in him, usually in his arm, measuring his body's reaction to something.  Heat, cold.  Sometimes he couldn't breathe—underwater, oxygen deprivation.  They stopped cutting him open after a point, apparently after having figured out all that they needed to know, which he supposed was something.  Electricity; pain.  A lot of that, and in different manners and dosages.  Not that they made a conscious effort to _hurt_ him (most of the time), but so many things they cooked up just happened to have it as a side effect, and then there were the times that he bit his tongue so hard while trying to keep from screaming in pain that it bled.

They let him start running outside after a while, when the cuts had healed, though this wasn't much better.  It was always in an enclosed area, surrounded by walls and what he was fairly certain were snipers.  Reflexes and agility training, they called it.  Tommy was pretty sure that typical obstacle courses didn't involve threats of being shot or getting blown up.

The days blurred together, and after a while, Tommy couldn't say if he had been here weeks or months.  Sometimes he even wondered if it had been another year and he had just missed that, too.

* * *

The one thing that Tommy remotely kept track of was one of the things that he tried hardest to forget.

The first time, he had thought that it was just another run on the course.  Explosions were bad, yes, but he was usually able to outrun or dodge them, and while he usually walked out with cuts and scrapes, it was never anything incredibly serious.

Before pushing him out there, however, in the moments between removing his shackles and the door opening, Dr. Collins's voice cut through the anxiety that was clouding around Tommy's head.

"Your objective here is to neutralize the target.  Do not use force that will permanently injure, maim, or kill it."  Tommy debated asking if there was some way to impermanently kill something, but was stopped by her hand on his shoulder.  Not a friendly hand, of course, even if it was the first non-scientific or restraining contact he could remember.  He was kind of distracted, of course, by the fingernails digging into the skin below his shirt.  He yelped slightly and tried to twist away, but she would have none of this.

"Fuck this up, _Thomas_ ," she hissed in his ear, eyes narrowing in a particularly nasty fashion, "and I'll mention to Doctor Ryans that I've always wanted to examine the internal organs of a living speedster in action.  Or maybe the brain.  How would a nice trepanation feel, do you think?"

He had never heard the word "trepanation" before, but it wasn't hard to figure out.  The absolute lack of doubt that she would do it nearly caused Tommy to be sick on the ground at her feet, but then the door opened and she shoved him outside.

He nearly careened into the dirt, but managed to right himself—and then look across the—Jesus Christ.  His mind substituted the word "arena," and it wasn't hard to figure out why.

He sized up his opponent at a glance.  Bigger than Tommy—there was something not surprising in the slightest.  It would have been easy to vaporize him at a distance, now, but—well, good fucking job, doc, picking someone whose powers had effectively two settings: defensive and absolutely destroyed.  Non-lethal force.  Fuck.

While his first instinct was to _go_ , run in, lay the guy out and get out of here, for what was not impossibly the first time in his life he thought twice.  They _knew_ what he could do, yeah?  And it would be _just_ like them to have some kind of countermeasure set for him—this was them.  It couldn't be that easy.  So he hesitated.

And then something slammed into him, knocking him through the air and throwing him into the wall.

He staggered quickly to his feet—he hadn't seen anything _hit_ him?  What—  It had to be the guy over there.  Fine then.  Nonlethal force.  A flick of the wrist and the ground underneath his opponent exploded, sending him flying a few feet.  Run towards him and keep him distra—

And then there was another— _something_ , one that laid him out flat.  Not just that, but a bursting pain in his knees and elbows where they smacked the ground, and a funny ringing in his ears accompanied with a sharp pain _._ He lifted a hand to his ear shakily and felt something wet; a glance at the hand showed smeared blood.  " _Fuck,_ " he snarled, or thought he did—he didn’t hear much more than a muffled noise that sounded nothing like him.  He tried to push himself up, but fell over again, face smacking against the dirt.  Not from another of those—what were they, shockwaves?  But his balance was all weird—he could have sworn that way was up, but apparently not.  Grabbing the wall and hauling himself up by using it as a crutch, he watched the world tilt for a few seconds before another hit him, throwing him into the stone.

This really wasn't good.  Fuck waiting—he needed to take this guy out _now._   Half crawling as he scrambled towards the other side, he managed to get a few yards closer before another wave slammed into him, sending him rolling back, face skidding in the dirt again, rocks slicing into his face.  This time, he wasn't even able to begin to push himself up before there was yet another shockwave, leaving him with his head ringing and feeling as if someone had yanked his hair and shook his head very hard.  He was hoping that the coppery taste in his mouth was just a bitten lip, cheek, or tongue, but he wouldn't have been surprised if, when he was actually able to concentrate on counting them, he would have at least one fewer tooth.

There was another wave, and another, and though Tommy managed to hold onto the ground to keep from being pushed back too much further, the tilting world combined with the consistent shockwaves was too much.  Instinctively drawing his knees to his chest and leaning down over them, using his arms to cover his head and neck, he curled up as tightly as he could in the fetal position, hoping that it would be over soon—

But god, what if he died?  Yeah, _he_ wasn't allowed to kill the guy—though Tommy was thinking that might be the only way out at this point, and what if it was some kind of test or something stupid that they always showed in those psychological movies or whatever?  But that might not be it either—what if the guy had been ordered to kill him?  What if Tommy was just a way to test _his_ powers?  Disposable cannon fodder?  And even if he wasn't going to die here, well… fucking this up was exactly what he was doing, wasn't it?  Cold terror trickled from his spine to his stomach as he imagined Collins's cold not-quite-a-smirk as she lifted her scalpel and dug it into his chest—

_No._ He wasn't sure if he screamed the word.  The surge of panic that swept through him was all that had his attention right now, and though his first lunge forward coincided almost exactly with another shockwave to the face, the moment he was able he picked himself up again and started running.  He was able to get about halfway before he fell over, not from a shockwave—though that hit soon after, and hurt like hell—but because he just couldn't manage to keep his body _upright._   He lifted his head and focused on the bastard who was doing this to him, crawling forward again.  Just had to get to him, take him down _somehow_ , but in between the shocks…

_Pain._   He couldn't contain a yelp as another hit.  His _enemy_ was doing perfectly fine, which had the added effect of incensing Tommy, though it was more his failure than the other one's success that was getting to him.  But—the guy was fine.  That was kind of weird, when everything around him seemed to be getting wave-blasted—maybe there was some kind of safe zone—if he could just get close…

_Hit._   Tommy wasn't sure which way was up anymore, but he could see his target, and that's what was important.  He took off running, focusing, focusing—if he was just _fast_ enough— _don't fuck this up, Shepherd_ —he could see his enemy stumbling backwards, slowly—

_Impact._   And this time it was blissfully solid impact.  He heard a startled shout that was cut short by the both of them slamming on the ground, Tommy having gone with an all-out football tackle.  He could _hear_ the shockwaves continuing, but couldn't feel them anymore— _thank god._   He didn't have much more time for gratitude, however, because he felt two arms moving—to attack him, probably.  Tommy did what Tommy did best: he drew back his left arm and slugged the guy in the face.  There was a scream and another shockwave, but the adrenaline of pain and fear was coursing through Tommy now, and he wasn't going to stop.  _Son of a bitch._   That one he was pretty sure he snarled—he felt his mouth move at least—and then he hit him again, in the jaw, and again.  His right hand tightened on the guy's shoulder where he held the guy in place, ready to hit him again if he needed to.

But that wasn't necessary.  The guy's face was slack, unconscious.  Tommy even vaguely recognized him as a fellow inmate.  Being so big he was kind of hard to miss, and he never seemed to be as angry or suspicious as most of the rest of them, which was always weird.  But seeing him like this…

He shoved himself backwards, dropping the unconscious body and scrambling once again to his feet.

" _There!_ "  Now that there was nothing attacking him to draw away his attention, he was positive that he was screaming now.  Not that he heard it much—if he had been a little more disoriented he would have just figured that he was yelling something underwater, because the similarities were close enough.  "There!  He's fucking _down!_ I fucking—"  His own voice cut himself off this time.  He had tipped again, fallen backwards, not realized until he had hit the ground, the needles stabbing further into his back and ripping a wordless scream from his throat.

It took a moment to push himself to his side, to alleviate the pain in his back at least a little, and when he was able to breathe again he lifted his hand to at least try to wipe some of the blood off.  It was everywhere: dripping out of his ears and nose, dribbling from his mouth as he spat it out, and for a second he thought something had happened with his eyes, too, which would have made a complete set of bleeding upper orifices.  But no, those were—Tommy didn't allow himself to finish the thought as he swiped a filthy arm across his eyes.  Couldn't let them see that.  "Are you fucking…"  He took a deep breath, not noticing the two more tears that trickled down his cheeks.  "…Fucking _happy?_   Well _there_ , I…"  He tried pushing himself up some more with a remarkable lack of success.  He vaguely noticed more people in the yard, could hear muffled noises that he thought might be people speaking, felt someone grab his arm and try to tug him up—and then nope, he was out.

* * *

He woke up in the lab.  For a moment he panicked, thinking that it was another surgery, but he was able to move a little, even if he was restrained, and there were no scalpels cutting into him this time.  Doctor Collins stalked into his view, pretty face twisted in anger, opened her mouth, and began to bitch him out.

At least, Tommy assumed she was bitching him out.  Around the pain, Tommy felt giddiness well up in him.  Well this was an unexpected perk to getting this fucked up: he couldn't hear a word she was saying.  He knew that he shouldn't, but he grinned and giggled.

Her slap across his face just made him laugh harder, as did the two subsequent ones after that.  She was lifting her hand for a fourth—even Tommy could hear how loud she was yelling, even if he couldn't discern what she was saying, though he was pretty sure that her lips had just formed the words "little brat"—when Doctor Ryans grabbed her wrist, shaking his head and telling her something that Tommy couldn't hear but caused her to at least back off.  With one last glare, she stalked away.  Ryans gave him a nasty look as well, but said something to one of the other doctors, who came over and tilted Tommy's head to the side.  He let them.  Whatever.  Maybe if they couldn't fix it they'd let him go.  _Hah!_   That was funny!  He kept laughing.  So what if he hadn't performed up to expectations against some other project.  Maybe he had made them _look_ bad!  Wouldn't that be glorious.  He continued giggling as the doctors examined his ear, continued until he choked, forcing back a sob, and drew a deep, shuddering breath.

* * *

They didn't stop there.

Yes, Tommy enjoyed the best weeks of his life in that damned facility after that fight.  Not being able to hear was a fantastic excuse for getting out of _anything_ , and he wasn't well enough for any particularly nasty experiments.  The guy who Tommy had fought even found him in the cafeteria at one point, the bruises on his face that nasty shade of yellow-green that indicated the itchy stage of healing.  After realizing that Tommy still couldn't hear, he slipped him a note that said _I'm sorry._   Tommy's mouth twisted at that.  He wasn't quite sure how to deal with it, really—yeah, the guy had probably been stuck in the same situation as Tommy, but his _ears were broken._   He stuck with a casual shrug and a nod.  Friendly enough to remain non-hostile, but noncommittal enough to avoid too much friendliness in case the guy turned out to be someone he didn't want to deal with.  It never ended up being necessary, as he wouldn't say more than a few words to him again, but it didn't hurt to be cautious.

When Tommy had healed, however, they sent him out to train again.  And again.  He was never allowed to actually kill, which made things more difficult, but given how shaky even punching out these kids—these _enemies_ made him, it was probably better that he couldn't.  He added a few more impressive scars to his collection: burns on his arms and the backs of his hands from some wannabe firebender, a couple of puncture wounds from some guy who had a stinger, and even a huge bite mark on his side from some chick who could summon creepy creatures.

He decided, after one of them bit him, that the "no-killing" rule only applied to the humans, so she wasn't a problem after that.

Despite his performance the first time, nothing was ever _that_ hard again.  He could sense Ryans and Collins smugness when he would stumble in after a fight, victorious.  He was their darling.  He eventually stopped paying attention to what was going on around him when he _wasn't_ fighting to avoid getting fucked to hell, but he did think at one point that he heard a group of doctors discussing winnings.  After all, of course they were doing this first and foremost to train their detainees and for _science_ , but how could it not become a competition between these kinds of people after a point?

But hearing about how one of the doctors had won five hundred dollars after he had taken out some super-strengthed mutant just made him feel like even more of an animal, so he shoved his thoughts away.

* * *

His mind was starting to feel fuzzy most of the time, when he wasn't fighting, and while some of it might have been exhaustion and hunger, Tommy didn't think that was all of it, though he couldn't figure out exactly what.  He didn't usually listen to the conversations of the guards or doctors these days.  Didn't usually listen to _anyone._   But sometimes…

"Just one more week of this hellhole, and I'm headed to Cancún."

"Really?  How long you staying?"

"Little over two weeks.  Our anniversary's November second, and that gives us time after that."

Tommy's mind slowly clicked the numbers into place.  Almost November.  He had been in here for almost a year.

Tommy realized, with a jolt, that he was sixteen now.

_Two more years of this?  God.  How the hell am I supposed to make it through that?  And that's if they even let me out when I'm eighteen.  Yeah, that's not going to happen._

He felt that fuzzy sensation beginning to creep into his mind again, and suddenly he realized what it was.

He was trying to give up.  His traitor brain was telling him to just accept it and keep his head down and not make trouble and things would suck marginally less.

Fuck.  That.

* * *

Tommy began to use his knowledge, though limited, of his fellow inmates to pull some strings.  Get some favors.  Tommy set up a couple of I.O.U.s that he really had no idea how he was going to pay back.

Ideally, if this worked, he wouldn't have to.  Good thing flour wasn't particularly hard to come by.  At least, as not-hard to come by as anything else is in prison.

Even the doctors seemed to notice that something was up.  They would shoot him uncertain glances as he gritted his teeth and dealt with anything they could cook up.  Anything.  No, he didn't exactly "cooperate," but he didn't fight anymore, either.

He overheard Ryans say, once, that he was glad that he was "beginning to get through to the boy.  Give it another month and he'll be much more willing."

Tommy had to try very hard not to drawl at the man that he was envious of Ryans' ability to suck his own dick.

But no, he couldn't afford to get in trouble now.  He needed the freedom he had, as limited  as it might be.  And he was damned resourceful.  He made use of it, learned the locations of the cameras and worked out of their sight.  Learned the locations of a _lot_ of things, actually.

And then one day, he begged a stick of chewing gum from someone he knew would have one.  The flirty grin he wore was unfamiliar, felt strange on his face, but it managed to win him one stick from her, albeit accompanied with an exasperated eyeroll.

He hid it under his tongue when he was about to be escorted back to his cell, and waited…

There it was, the fight he thought might be coming.  He wasn't part of it this time, but things had a way of getting around.  And he might have managed to talk someone else into getting involved, making it even bigger…

Perfect.  Ignoring him for just a few moments, the guard hurried over to give a hand in subduing the teenagers.  Tommy slipped down the hall, to the door he knew was there.  He had a few minutes.  Maybe five if he was lucky.  It had been far too long since he had done this, and he prayed that his hands hadn't forgotten how to.

The lock sprang open.  So maybe Vic hadn't been entirely useless.  He pulled the homemade contraption from his waistband and stuck it in place with the chewing gum.  He had never seen flour explode.  Still wouldn't, as the single match (which worked, thank god) went to light the improvised wick instead.

The door closed right as his escort spotted him, expression one of fury.  As the man stalked over, Tommy lifted his hands, palms out, attempting an expression of sincerity.  "Hey, sorry.  I just wanted to stay outta it.  Guy fighting over there, he's got problems with me and I didn't want to start anything more if he saw me, 'specially since other people were—"

"Just go," the man growled, spinning Tommy's shoulder and giving his upper back a hard shove with the heel of his hand.  Tommy yelped in pain, thinking that the fucker had probably caused it to start bleeding again, but the guard seemed satisfied, so he gritted his teeth, lowered his head, and hated himself for it.  It would be over soon.  He hoped.  He prayed.  One way or another.

* * *

One in the morning.

Calculating the time had been the shittiest part of the entire thing.  Yeah, you could light a makeshift candle and maybe _approximate_ how long it would take to burn to a certain length, but it wasn't an exact science, and being in that room and closed off in the power breaker might have affected it somehow.  He rolled anxiously in his bed, though he tried to keep still.  Didn't want whoever was watching the camera thinking that something was up.

How would he know if it worked, anyway?  Yes, his powers should come back, but—what if he didn't realize?  He'd only have a couple of seconds—no, less than that—a couple of fractions of a second, maybe, before the generators kicked on.  What if he didn't move _quickly_ enough?  A year before, the idea would have been laughable to him.  Now?  Now he sometimes couldn't remember what being fast felt like.  _Really_ fast, unfettered fast; not like the fast that happened when they ran their tests, when he sometimes wondered if he _didn't_ perform up to expectations, what they would do to him.

He closed his eyes, trying not to worry about the completely fallible nature of his plan, or think that it was stupid, or wondering what sort of hell they had planned for him tomorrow—

But then he felt it.  He hadn't heard anything—the explosion was far away, and would have been small—but he felt it.  It was like a bolt of lightning hit him and suddenly energized him beyond all reason.

Tommy grinned and lifted a hand.

The wall exploded.


End file.
